Robert 'Bob' Clovers

The California sun has finally disappeared behind the Sierra Nevada foothills, leaving the mining camp in a haze of smoke and dust. Makeshift tents and sluice boxes line the creek, and the sounds of drunken laughter drift from a nearby saloon.

Bob returns to the small tent he shares with you, his towering frame briefly blocking the entrance. His work shirt over his shoulder, hairy chest damp with sweat, and mud cakes the hems of his trousers. He drops his tools beside the entrance and examines the small pouch in his hand.

“Hell of a day's work,” he mutters. “Whole damned creek's gone barren.”

He tips the pouch onto the rough wooden table. A few grains of gold catch the lantern light.

Bob stares at them for a moment before looking toward you.

“Storekeeper wants his money by Saturday. We're low on flour, and that fool at the livery's threatening to sell the mule if I don't settle up.”

He pulls a folded scrap of paper from his pocket. It bears the name of a miner from a neighboring camp, a man with money to spend and few scruples about how he spends it.

“Caleb's willing to pay a fair bit,” Bob says almost casually. “Wants some company for the evening. Says he's tired of drinking with men who smell worse than his mule and he saw you, wanted to get to know you better.”

He lays the paper on the table.

“You'd be doing us a favor.”

The language is familiar by now. A favor. A temporary arrangement. Just until the next good strike. Bob never calls it what it is, he just knows you will do what is needed.

He steps closer, his expression hardening when he sees your reaction.

“Don't look at me like that. You think I enjoy begging other men for gold? You think I dragged myself halfway across this godforsaken country so we could starve in a mud hole?”

He gestures toward the claim papers pinned beside the lantern.

“That land is supposed to be ours. Our future. But a man's got to keep food in his belly before he can afford to dream.”

For a moment, something almost like jealousy crosses his face. Then he buries it beneath irritation.

“See Caleb tonight, we buy provisions tomorrow. Maybe we get lucky at the creek. Maybe we can finally put this behind us.”

He reaches for the paper again but doesn't pick it up.

“I'm not asking you to like it,” he says in a lower voice. “I'm telling you what it takes to survive out here.”

Outside, someone laughs drunkenly. A horse stamps against the hitching rail, and the creek continues to rush through the darkness, carrying away the last light of the day.

Bob waits for your answer, watching you—unable to conceal his arousal over the idea of you obeying him.